


Have At It

by lyonet



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonet/pseuds/lyonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Arthur and Merlin argued over something with unexpected consequences, and one time it all worked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have At It

1.

Nobody needs this many boxes. There must be walls in here somewhere but right now all Merlin can see is a labyrinth of cardboard, other people’s possessions packed into claustrophobically tight corridors and piled up into tottering columns. Some have been labelled with reasonable things like ‘CUPS, PLATES – HANDLE WITH CARE’ and ‘TOWELS’, all in the same neat blue print, but others have just been scrawled with symbols that the original packer probably understood but literally nobody else does. Merlin opened one by mistake. It was full of shiny metal things that were either very obscure kitchen implements or very creative sex toys.

If he’s is not bumping into boxes, he is bumping into people carrying them. The first few times he apologised and tried to introduce himself, but it’s almost noon and civilities have degenerated to harried smiles. Someone put on the radio a while ago to ‘keep up morale’ and now loud pop music is blaring from the kitchen. There are half-empty mugs propped up in all sorts of unwise places. A huge glass tank sits in the middle of the living room floor for no apparent reason, like they are expecting a visiting mermaid.

When Merlin moved into the flat he shares with Gwaine, he had been able to carry all his stuff up from the car in two trips and Gwaine had just rocked up with a rucksack. When he shares this fact with Freya, she hits him over the head with her huge stuffed toy panther.

“I’m not _making_ you help out,” she points out. “You’re the one who wanted to meet my new housemates to make sure they’re not serial killers or something. How you’re meant to tell that from helping us unpack crockery, I don’t know.”

“I can count their knives,” Merlin suggests.

“I think that’s the last of my stuff now anyway,” Freya adds, leaning to peer into the depths of the car boot. “Let’s get it inside and go for lunch, okay? I want a strawberry milkshake and something smothered in salt.”

The box Merlin is holding (the last box, thank God) has _kitchen_ scrawled on it in green marker so that’s where he takes it, intending to dump it on whatever counter space is left and get out while the going’s good. And that would have worked out great if somebody else had not been trying to do the same thing. Merlin gets a faceful of tousled golden hair and a startled squawk in his ear as he first crashes into the bloke, and then they both crash into the table, and the box crashes to the floor, followed by a mug that explodes into wet smithereens.

“For the love of – who the fuck are you?” the bloke splutters, shoving Merlin off him and looking at the mess in dismay. “You broke Morgana’s mug!”

“You broke it,” Merlin says. “Um, technically.”

The bloke’s blue eyes widen incredulously. He is really unfairly pretty. “I wasn’t expecting some clumsy idiot to waltz into the room without looking where he was going!”

Okay, not pretty enough to get away with that. Under the circumstances Merlin would usually say something placatory and joke about it with Freya or Gwaine later, but he’s exhausted and weirdly disappointed, so he retorts without thinking.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to meet an obnoxious toad, but today’s been full of surprises. And I’m not clumsy. You ploughed straight into _me_.”

“Oh good, Arthur, you’re already making friends,” someone says drily, and a girl eases around them into the kitchen. Her curls are springing free from a messy bun and she looks as tired as Merlin feels, but she rears back at the sight of the shattered cup. “Morgana’s going to _kill_ you.”

Arthur glares at Merlin. “She’s going to kill _him_.”

“Actually, no,” Merlin chirps, and flees the kitchen at top speed. Arthur looks the athletic type, but Freya is a very obliging getaway driver. She laughs all the way through lunch.

 

2.

Morgana forgives Arthur, eventually. He is so tempted to say _it’s just a mug_ but nothing is ‘just’ with Morgana and she is capable of inventive payback when she feels like it, so on Sunday he drags Gwen off to help him select an acceptable replacement and at the same time to pump her for information on the new housemates. It’s not that he thinks his sister and her best friend can’t look after themselves, but Morgana has weird taste in people and Gwen has become desensitised to weird by prolonged exposure to the Pendragon family, so Arthur thinks he can’t be too careful.

“They seem nice.” Gwen hums thoughtfully over a skull-and-crossbones cup before putting it back on the shelf. “Mithian’s studying law, like Morgana, only she’s planning to be a solicitor. They hate each other already. Morgana went off on one of her rants against the establishment and it turns out Mithian’s father is the judge in the Odin case – the one Morgana’s been so up in arms about? – so that went down like a ton of bricks.”

“Sounds like a fantastic start,” Arthur remarks, not at all surprised.

“I like Mithian, though. She has a wicked sense of humour, I know you’ll like her too. And Morgana is on night shifts right now so they don’t run into each other much.” Gwen studies a green cup with a wavy serpentine print but shakes her head and rejects it too. “Freya’s lovely. She’s training to be a vet and she wants a cat. Which is fair, if we have to put up with Morgana’s python I think we can handle something fluffy.”

“Morgana owns the house,” Arthur points out. It is where Uther Pendragon put his foot down, ensuring both his children invested a significant portion of their inheritances into real estate. Arthur picked a comfortable flat close to his training centre; Morgana picked a town house with a reputation for being haunted (then threatened to move out when the ghost didn’t show). Her trust fund didn’t stretch to household staff, so she went for well-screened housemates instead.

“We’re paying rent, which gives us a vote,” Gwen says firmly. “She goes on about how great democracy is, she can deal with losing the occasional argument.”

Arthur laughs at that for a good three minutes and makes her promise to take photos when the argument takes place. Gwen patiently waits for him to pull himself together, then picks out a mug with _Authentic Witch’s Brew_ printed across the side. He buys her hot chocolate afterwards to say thank you, and to catch up. Gwen has been Morgana’s best friend since their first year at school, and Arthur sort of fell into friendship with her by association. She’s the kindest person he knows, but nobody delivers a blunt home truth with more precision when it’s needed, and he likes getting her opinion before making big decisions. His agent forwarded him an interview request from a sports magazine this morning, which he’d usually accept straight away, but this particular magazine is known for its risqué photo shoots and pushy questions.

“I don’t know, Arthur,” Gwen says, eyeing him thoughtfully over the rim of her cup. “You’ve been trying to shake the ‘hot new thing’ tag lately, posing half-naked in a magazine probably won’t look good for that. Not that you won’t look good! You usually look good. But you know what I mean? You’re an Olympic level fencer, you have solid sponsors, plenty of media opportunities. You can pass on this one if you’re not comfortable.”

“It’s not just the topless thing,” Arthur admits. “They’re making such a big deal of me being bisexual, you’d think there had never been a queer athlete before. And Dad –”

Gwen wrinkles her nose, the way she always does when Uther’s name comes up. She is always civil to him in person, but that is about as far as her tolerance goes. “He’s your coach, not your king. Think it through yourself before bringing it up with him, okay? You know how good he is at talking you into things.” She picks up her bag. “Actually, why don’t you come over and hang out with us tonight? Freya’s picked out a movie and I’m making dinner.”

It sounds so much better than rewatching old fencing competitions on his laptop and making mental lists of all his flaws. “Okay. When should I come over?”

The thing he should have remembered to ask was whether Gwen had invited anybody else. When he shows up at eight, coming straight from training in a ratty red hoodie with his hair still damp, the last thing he expects is for Toad Guy to open the door.

“You?” Toad Guy manages, after blinking bewilderedly for a few seconds.

“ _You_ ,” Arthur growls. He shoulders past, aware he is possibly being a bit unreasonable – _it was just a mug, Morgana –_ but he doesn’t like surprises, or meeting new people unexpectedly. His father drummed it into him from an early age: someone is always watching, waiting for him to fuck up. And this guy saw him fuck up in the kitchen three days ago, an entirely cringe-worthy memory.

“I’m Merlin, for the record,” Toad Guy sighs, closing the door.

Arthur pulls himself together and offers his own name, plus his hand, which Toad Guy (can his name really be  _Merlin?_ ) gives a quizzical look before shaking. The awkward moment is thankfully interrupted by Gwen, who knows Arthur well and hauls him into the kitchen to help with dinner. He is told to dice potatoes, as handling sharp objects is his key life skill.

“That’s Merlin,” she says, unnecessarily. “He’s adorable. Be nice.”

“He’s irritating,” Arthur protests.

“You’re mean,” she points out, accurately. “You don’t have to talk much if you don’t want to, we’re watching a movie after all. It’s called _The Avengers._ Not that _Avengers_ , a different one. I have been promised evil teddy bears and flirting spies.”

“Oh God,” Arthur moans. “What did I do wrong with my life.”

It’s not that bad, though. The movie is fun, if absurd, dinner is Gwen’s usual excellence, and Arthur is pretty relaxed by the time the credits roll. Gwen and Merlin are talking about a lecturer they share, Professor Gaius, so in an attempt to be friendly Arthur asks what Merlin is studying. It’s a _perfectly reasonable question_ . It’s not Arthur’s fault Merlin chose to study _aromatherapy._

He’s not actually rude. Arthur is sure of that. Just surprised – and okay, a little bit dismissive – and Merlin takes it completely the wrong way. And, well, some instincts go deep. When somebody pokes Arthur with something sharp, be it a look or a word or a sabre, he hits back.

“Why did you say that,” Gwen wails afterward, when Merlin has slammed out of the house and Freya has followed. “ _Why_ , Arthur, what’s so wrong with aromatherapy?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Arthur snaps. “It’s a bit left field. And he is weird.”

Gwen groans and thumps her head against the fridge. “Text him,” she says, shoving her phone under Arthur’s nose. “Apologise. He’s Freya’s best friend and you can get along with him if you try, which you will.”

Arthur considers arguing. But then he thinks of Merlin’s tense face, and takes the phone without complaint. _Sorry about tonight,_ he texts. _There’s nothing wrong with your career, I was curious and kind of rude._ He sends it, then rolls his eyes at himself and adds, using his own phone, _That was Arthur, by the way. Gwen gave me your number._

The reply comes quickly. _Has anyone ever told you that you are a prat?_

_Actually, no. You are the first._

_Get used to it._

 

3.

“Prat,” Merlin says, emphatically.

Arthur leans back with folded arms. “That’s not a counter-argument, Merlin.”

Freya snickers, the traitor. Merlin makes a mental note to stop coming over to the Hellmouth (Morgana’s choice of name) to see her, even if Gwen makes the best brownies he has ever eaten, because whenever one of his visits coincides with Arthur’s – and an alarming number of them do – two things inevitably happen. Arthur says something indisputably wrong, and Merlin has to tell him so. Make that three inevitable things: somebody will walk in on the argument and laugh at them.

“No, go on,” Arthur says. “Do you have statistics?”

Merlin pulls out his phone and types rapidly. Freya laughs again, muffling it with both hands over her mouth when he scowls at her. The kitten she has talked the household into letting her keep is napping on the kitchen table beside her, where it is certainly not supposed to be, and Arthur is petting it absent-mindedly. Which is unfair. He should not be allowed to have a regal jawline and be cute with small furry animals and be _wrong_ about so many things.

“Ha!” Merlin says triumphantly, flourishing his phone. Arthur leans over to read the web page Merlin has pulled up, eyebrows drawing together in concentration as he reads. His shoulder presses against Merlin’s, solid and warm, pushing him off balance.

“Hm,” he says. “All right, that’s fair, but what about this?”

He brings up a web page of his own and Merlin blinks, because he remembers snapping at Arthur ‘do your research next time’ after a particularly heated dispute a few days ago and wow, it looks like he has. And...he has a point. A good point, Merlin is both impressed and dismayed to realise.

Their heads are bent together, phones swapped back and forth to support different threads of debate, until Merlin can’t remember the original point but knows he’s got a book and three blogs to recommend to Arthur and he doesn’t want to do that with Freya looking on. “Oops, we’re interrupting your study time, my bad,” he tells her, and tugs on Arthur’s arm to get him into the relative privacy of the sitting room instead.

“You know a lot about politics for someone planning to be an aromatherapist,” Arthur comments. “That’s not a put-down, before you fluff up your tail, just an observation.”

“Did you just compare me to Freya’s cat?”

“She pets your hair and you sleep in strange places,” Arthur says immediately. “So, yes.”

Merlin opens his mouth and finds he can’t argue with that one. Arthur laughs. “It’s not that weird, trust me. _My_ ex-girlfriend Vivian convinced me to climb in through her window one time to deliver flowers, I’m probably lucky I didn’t break my neck.”

“You...yeah, lucky.” Merlin shakes his head. “And Freya’s not my girlfriend.”

Arthur blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Arthur. I am very sure and very gay.”

Arthur blinks again. “Oh.”

“You’re, um. Okay with that?” Merlin hates the note of hesitancy in his voice, but he’s just started _liking_ Arthur and it wouldn’t be the first time Merlin lost a friend that way.

“It would be quite hypocritical if I wasn’t,” Arthur says, shrugging. “Since I’m bi.”

Merlin relaxes. That’s – good to know. Unexpectedly great to know, actually.

“You’re still wrong about Bayard’s refugee policy,” he says, mostly for something to say.

Arthur grins. “Prove it.”

 

4.

“It’s not a date.”

“I think it’s a date.”

“Would you dress like that for a date?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Arthur’s got into the habit of arguing with Merlin for the pleasure of hearing him argue back, but he’s genuine this time. They’re leaning into the window together to watch Gwen and Mithian walk down the street, heading for the coffee place on the corner that Mithian likes so much. Gwen is wearing a floral sundress and yellow cardigan, her standard outfit for an autumn weekday. Mithian is much more polished in a pencil skirt and white blouse, turning to smile at something Gwen is saying.

“She looks like she’s going to a business meeting,” Merlin says critically.

“She’s wearing her hair out!”

“The coffee place isn’t very exciting.”

“Gwen’s not a big fan of exciting.” Arthur knows this from experience, because he and Morgana are often ‘exciting’ even when they don’t really mean to be, and even if Gwen has the patience of a saint, it doesn’t mean she needs to be tested all time. “They make good hot chocolate. She likes that.”

“Is that what you’d do?” Merlin asks. “For a date, I mean?”

Arthur takes a beat too long to answer. He’s maybe asked himself the same question a few times lately, at increasingly inappropriate moments. This moment, for instance, glancing at Merlin’s smiling face and scruffy hair and wondering where he’d like to go. Arthur is used to dating a type: competitive, athletic and too busy for him. Merlin, though – Merlin always has time, somehow, always takes his calls, answers his texts and emails within minutes, like he truly wants to hear what Arthur thinks. That feels really good right now, since Arthur’s father is still deeply annoyed with him for turning down that interview.

“That was a stupid question, sorry,” Merlin mutters, smile fading. “Coffee, it’s the classic, right?”

“Rock climbing,” Arthur blurts. At Merlin’s stare, he elaborates. “I like rock climbing. It’s a good way of testing a date’s stamina, at least.”

“Wow, you’re awful,” Merlin says, sounding impressed.

“I’d pay for dinner afterwards,” Arthur says, pretty sure he’s flirting by this point. He hasn’t broken eye contact yet, and Merlin’s not looking away either. “To make up for being awful.”

“But you’d be awful some more,” Merlin says softly. “I know you would.”

“Mm,” Arthur agrees. Merlin’s eyes are incredibly blue. Darker than Arthur’s own, a dusk colour, and he has a way of looking out from under his eyelashes that is borderline hypnotic. “But I’m very, very good at making up for it.”

They are swaying towards each other, and it feels inevitable. Destiny. Arthur’s prepared to throw around the big, stupid grand words if he just gets this kiss.

So obviously Morgana throws open the door and storms in, already raging about one of her professors, the glaring inaccuracies of his lecture today and the formal complaint she plans on making. Which Arthur should care about. It sounds important. He tries to be a good brother, he really does try, but right now Merlin isn’t meeting his eyes and Arthur kind of wants to kick Morgana out of her own house.

 

5.

Merlin has no excuse this time. Freya is out at a party, Morgana is at work, Gwen and Mithian are in one of the bedrooms ‘studying’, and Merlin has a place of his own – though Gwaine won’t be home on a Friday, he’ll be out convincing pretty people to buy him drinks and will no doubt end the night dancing on tables, texting Merlin hilariously misspelled misadventures. And Merlin is having one of his low nights, when he feels the distance from Ealdor as a tug under his ribcage and is too homesick to risk calling his mother. Curled up in a corner of Morgana’s red velvet sofa, he sets up a Doctor Who marathon and hopes no one asks him to go. Gwen won’t, she’s nice like that. Mithian might, but she’s too busy making out with Gwen to worry about it just now.

He still jumps when the door opens, in case it’s Morgana home early – he doesn’t get on enormously well with Morgana – but it is the other semi-resident Pendragon. It’s obvious at first glance that Arthur is not having a much better day than Merlin. He looks overtired and is in the loose red hoodie that Merlin recognises as his post-training gear.

“Hey,” Merlin says. “Gwen and Mithian are busy, want to squat on the sofa with me?”

He’s not a hundred percent sure where he stands with Arthur. There was a moment a couple of weeks back, when they’d been lazily arguing over the perfect date, when he was convinced that either he was going to kiss Arthur or Arthur was going to kiss him. Nothing has happened since to suggest he was right about that. Arthur likes him, he must or he wouldn’t text so much, but they don’t hang out much outside of the regular coincidental run-ins at the Hellmouth.

To his relief, Arthur sinks onto the sofa at once, kicking off his boots and tipping his head against the backrest. His shoulders look tense. He shifts every couple of minutes, like he can’t get comfortable, rubbing at his neck.

“Did you pull something?” Merlin asks, concerned.

“What? No, I didn’t sleep well and training today was. Not good.” Arthur stares at the screen blankly. “My father doesn’t like it when I make mistakes. Obviously.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Not Pendragons,” Arthur says, and he doesn’t sound entirely like he’s joking.

Merlin looks at him for a long minute, then comes to a decision. “You need a massage,” he announces. “I can do that, if you want. I mean. I have the training.”

Arthur gives him a distinctly deer-in-the-headlights stare. “What,” he says, “no, I don’t need – ” and Merlin deliberately jostles him, because sometimes an argument needs to be won. Arthur winces at the pull on his shoulder.

“You were saying?” Merlin inquires.

Arthur makes a face, then nods slowly. “All right.”

Of course, Merlin didn’t come over expecting to give a massage. He has no oils and there’s nowhere for Arthur to lie down, but it’s not like he’s planning to give a full session so he makes do. Mithian has a dozen different scented soaps. She probably won’t mind Merlin borrowing one.

“What scents do you like?” he asks, hoping the answer isn’t too obscure.

“Lavender,” Arthur says, after a moment’s thought.

“Good one, that’s relaxing,” Merlin says, glad to find a container of lavender gel amongst the assembled pots. He washes his hands with it, then considers Arthur. “Can you lean forward? Brace your elbows against the coffee table.”

Arthur gives him another dubious look, like he’s deciding whether or not to make a joke, but leans forward anyway. Merlin should have thought this through better. Professor Gaius would be giving him the Eyebrow so hard right now, but as he’s not here, Merlin makes the most of his moment and slides his hands under the back of Arthur’s shirt.

He does have the training for this. He’s quite good at it, as a matter of fact. Starting off with carefully broad rubs, he soon identifies the spots that really need attention and focuses on kneading the tense muscle. Arthur sighs, stretching under his hands.

It’s not quite so easy to focus after that.

“And you compare _me_ to a cat,” Merlin mutters.

“You’re good at this,” Arthur says, and the honesty of it sets something glowing in Merlin’s chest. He works his thumbs into the muscle on either side of Arthur’s spine and this time gets a groan out of him.

If this was one of Merlin’s quite detailed fantasies, it would quite organically turn into a seduction and end in orgasms all around, but even with Arthur contentedly pliant under his hands, Merlin hasn’t forgotten that this isn’t his house. What’s more, Arthur’s sister might show up any time, and Merlin doesn’t want her seeing _that_. He moves his hands higher up Arthur’s back, away from the temptation of his belt loops.

“My mother used to have soap that smelled like that,” Arthur remarks drowsily. “It’s nice.”

“It’s Mithian’s,” Merlin confesses. “You could buy your mum some, if you want.”

Arthur stiffens, just a little. “No,” he says. “I can’t. She died a long time ago.”

“Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry, Arthur, I didn’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t tell you,” Arthur points out. “I don’t remember her well, I was very young when she died. My father has it much worse. More to miss, you know? But she used to come into my room last thing at night, to check on me, and I remember the smell of her soap.”

His tone is matter-of-fact. Merlin has a sudden overpowering desire to lean over, wrap his arms around Arthur, to tell him there is no such thing as ‘having it worse’ when it comes to grief and his father has no right to pretend there is. Merlin wants to _protect_ Arthur. He realises his hands have gone still, pressed against Arthur’s back, feeling his heartbeat through the warm skin.

“Is it over?” Arthur says, quietly.

“Are you feeling better?” Merlin asks, slowly withdrawing his hands. Hoping Arthur can tell how reluctant he is. Hoping, at the same time, that he has no idea.

Arthur straightens up. “Better,” he agrees, his voice hoarser than usual. “Thanks.”

 

\+ 1

It’s not getting better. Arthur is perfectly capable of asking somebody he finds attractive on a date – well, more like he flirts them into asking _him_ on a date, but whatever works, right? – only flirting with Merlin always seems to take unanticipated and occasionally prickly tangents, and he can’t for the life of him work out if Merlin is flirting _back._

That has not stopped Arthur dressing in the most flattering jeans he owns for Freya’s birthday party, or plying Merlin with Morgana’s killer cocktails. The house is full of people. Between them, the four girls have a lot of friends without much crossover between the different groups, and tonight is the first time there’s been a lot of mingling. Merlin’s flatmate Gwaine has camped over the chip bowl, enthusiastically chatting up Gwen’s brother Elyan, who looks both amused and interested. Arthur’s cousin Elena is gesturing exuberantly as she explains something to Freya, who is laughing. Morgana is sitting on her classmate/ occasional fuck buddy Alvarr’s lap and making out with his girlfriend Enmyria, which looks like the kind of situation that might blow up spectacularly, but is currently very satisfactory to all parties, and Arthur decides not to look in that direction for the rest of the night.

He’d rather look at Merlin. Who is a little drunk and too adorable with his hair sticking in all directions, his mouth wet and curved into a promising smile, his eyes turned towards the floor but flicking up now and again to meet Arthur’s. He’s wearing a scarf, because apparently Merlin is incapable of not wearing scarves; it’s a loose loop of red around his elegant neck, a contrast to the dark blue T-shirt underneath. Arthur might be staring. A bit.

“...so we had to run away,” Merlin is saying earnestly. “It was Will’s fault really. And the fence. I tripped over the fence. And there was a tree, only it wasn’t a tree, it was Mr Simmons...”

“Okay, that’s enough booze for one night,” Gwen says, snatching the glass out of Merlin’s hand as she passes and replacing it with the fruit punch she’s been guarding all night, to make sure somebody (that being Morgana or Gwaine) does not spike it. Merlin barely notices, swallowing it down and going back to his childhood anecdote about escaping an irritated farmer, a flock of geese and a pond. Freya is, for some reason, in the pond, and there’s a pitchfork somewhere? That belongs to a different farmer? It was a bet of the sort that only made sense at the time, and probably not even then. Merlin rambles, Arthur laughs, and he doesn’t even notice the party beginning to disperse until Gwaine lurches between them to kiss Merlin a sloppy goodbye on the cheek; he’s heading out with Elyan, so either Merlin’s making his own way home or he’s staying overnight here. Merlin doesn’t seem to care, just smiles hazily and goes back to talking to Arthur.

The next interruption comes from Mithian, pushing a roll of plastic bags into Arthur’s hand and telling them both to help clean up the mess. Nobody’s in the mood to do a thorough job, so it doesn’t take long – grabbing paper plates, sticky with cake, abandoned paper cups and balled up napkins, gathering up spoons and coffee mugs and dumping them in the sink to wash tomorrow. Arthur doesn’t even live here, this is not his responsibility, but he’s tired and anticipating a bad hangover so it’s easier to just go along with Mithian’s instructions.

“Okay, that will do,” she decides. “God, I’m tired. Arthur, are you staying over?”

“Um,” Merlin says, uncertainly. “I’m staying.”

“Yes, sure, sofa’s there,” Mithian yawns. “You know the drill.”

“Sofa bed,” Merlin agrees, looking at it worriedly. “Ah.”

“There’s only one, Mith,” Arthur finishes for him.

“You’ll cope,” she assures him, and heads off to bed. Leaving Arthur and Merlin staring at the sofa bed, which Arthur knows from personal experience is supposed to be a double but only if the two people involved really, really like each other. And. Well. That’s not a problem on his side, but Merlin’s eyes are wide and anxious and Arthur is too smashed to negotiate.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, grabbing a pillow.

“No, I will,” Merlin says quickly, grabbing it back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur snaps. “You’re too skinny. You’ll bruise or something.”

“You’re the athlete,” Merlin retorts. “You’ll get a cramp. Give me the pillow.”

“No.” Arthur holds onto it tighter. “You got first dibs anyway.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did!”

They stare at each other from opposite sides of the unfolded sofa bed for a minute, each waiting for the other to crack. Arthur groans and throws the pillow back on the bed. “We can share,” he says. He can control himself. He is going to sleep the second he’s horizontal anyway. Maybe he can talk Merlin into a cup of coffee tomorrow, clichés be damned. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

Merlin’s eyes go wider. “All right.”

They take turns in the bathroom, stripping down to T-shirts and boxers. It’s true they both know the drill by now, collecting extra pillows and blankets from the linen cupboard, but there are a lot of awkward pauses as they try to get out of each other’s way and end up in it more than ever. Once they are finally settled on the sofa bed, with as much of a gap as possible between them, Arthur resolutely closes his eyes.

He wakes up a few hours later and the gap is gone. He’s rolled over, or Merlin has, and it should be uncomfortable since they are now squashed together with Merlin’s bony knees and elbows all over the place, but it’s not. It’s good. Merlin is tucked right against his side, face turned into his chest, making a sleepy grumble when Arthur’s arm – thrown over Merlin’s hip, when did that happen, _what_ is happening – shifts and begins to retract.

“Mm, no,” Merlin mumbles, and that seems to wake him up a bit, which is frankly terrible timing. He props himself on his elbow. “Arthur?”

“Go back to sleep,” Arthur sighs, knowing Merlin won’t. He never does what he’s told.

“Were you – what are we…?” Merlin begins. He doesn’t sound drunk any more, he’s just confused. And warm. And unexpectedly soft, yielding, except for one place where he’s _really_ not. Arthur shifts, and Merlin shudders at the pressure.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Arthur. I – do you, is this –”

There’s a sentence under there somewhere, one Arthur turns over to search for in Merlin’s face. He sees enough to press forward and take the question out of Merlin’s mouth, taste it, lick it off his tongue. Arthur is moving without thinking, swinging a leg over Merlin to straddle his waist, leaning into the hands that have lifted up to cup his face and kissing, kissing blindly in the dark, coaxing out every gasp and moan he can get. His hands slide downward.

“Can I,” he breathes, but doesn’t finish because Merlin makes an incoherently urgent sound and reaches between them, yanking at the waistbands of both pairs of boxers until there’s nothing left in the way. He grinds up and they both groan.

“We have to,” Arthur gets out. “Be quiet.”

Merlin makes a muted noise of frustration. He grabs at the blanket, pulling it up to cover them, and prods Arthur over so they are lying on their sides, face to face. “So we’ll be quiet,” he whispers against Arthur’s neck, kissing his way down to the collar-bone, where he sucks experimentally. Arthur squeezes his hips, gritting his teeth against a groan. He slips a hand between their bodies, no easy task with the way Merlin has wrapped around him, to take their cocks in hand. The first few strokes are awkward, the angle is off. Then Merlin lifts his hips, and it’s perfect.

This is, technically, the least exciting sex Arthur has had in years. It is also – this is both embarrassing and amazing – the best sex he’s had in years, because this is _Merlin_ , and the ache of want that’s taken up a permanent residence inside him transmutes into blissfully hot ripples of pleasure with every movement of his hand, every rock of their hips. Merlin is clutching at his shoulders, muffling his sounds against Arthur’s neck; when he comes, his fingers dig tight enough to leave bruises and it feels fantastic. It doesn’t take Arthur long to follow, kissing Merlin through it, deep and messy.

They clean up straight afterwards, guiltily aware that the sofa is not theirs to profane but also not caring very much. It’s easy to curl together now, hooking ankles, Arthur’s arms settling around Merlin’s waist like they’ve been doing this for ages.

Merlin yawns. “So. Does this mean I have rock climbing to look forward to?”

Arthur snickers at the sarcasm. “It does. I insist.”

“Then for our second date, I’m taking you spelunking. Not a euphemism, either.”

“Presuming we survive the caves, our third date will be a brisk run in the woods. We can have a picnic afterwards.”

“I suppose I’ll be carrying the basket.”

“Well, if you’re offering...”

Merlin laughs against Arthur’s chest. “Maybe we’ll eventually make time for coffee.”

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, “we can do better than that,” and kisses him again.

 


End file.
